


Ceasefire

by Salmon_Pink



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a temporary truce, a secret one. It is a secret, also, that this has happened before, and that it will happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ceasefire

**Author's Note:**

> Character spoilers for _The Force Awakens_. Written for the [Star Wars Fruitbowl Femslash Challenge](http://starwarsfruitbowl.dreamwidth.org/580.html), for [Femslash February](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/femslash-february), and for [The Force Awakens Kink](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org), [prompt](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/1841.html?thread=2405681#cmt2405681) "Leia/Phasma, height difference, Phasma can lift Leia up for some against the wall sex".

The barrel of the blaster is pointed at her by steady hands. Aimed at the junction of Phasma’s neck where her armour is weakest, of course, because General Organa’s been wielding a blaster since before Phasma was born, and she’s a formidable opponent.

Leia’s eyes are narrowed, studying Phasma intently. “It’s been a long time, Captain,” she says, her tone almost flippant, as if this is a friendly conversation, as if they haven’t both drawn their weapons on each other.

Phasma breathes out slowly, her finger curved around the trigger. “Not nearly long enough,” she replies sardonically, the filtered voice of her helmet making her sound even colder and more indifferent to the danger in front of her.

The corner of Leia’s mouth twitches up into a familiar smirk. She lowers her blaster casually, clearly unsurprised when Phasma doesn’t do the same. When it’s safely holstered at her hip, Leia crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow. “Are you going to just stand there?” she asks teasingly. 

Phasma takes a threatening step forward in answer, the end of her blaster pressing up against the underside of Leia’s chin.

Leia has to tilt her head back, not just because of the pressure from the blaster but to be able to keep looking up into the dark lenses in front of Phasma’s eyes. Her stare is even, calm and unconcerned by Phasma’s actions, by the way Phasma is looming over her, that smirk only growing more pronounced as the tense silence stretches. 

“Take off that damn helmet,” Leia murmurs.

Leia isn’t her General, and yet Phasma’s never been able to resist a direct order from the woman.

She holsters her blaster with one hand, the other releasing the helmet’s seal. The air is cool against her face when she pulls the helmet over her head, and Leia’s eyes warm at the sight of her.

“We won’t have much time until we’re missed,” Phasma reminds her.

“We never do,” Leia agrees, and she pulls Phasma down with a hand at the back of her neck.

The kiss is as hard and fast as ever. The heat of Leia’s mouth warms her, the press of teeth against her bottom lip making Phasma grasp at Leia’s hips. Her shoulders and knees and back protest at the way she’s hunching over, so she quietens them by hauling Leia up, trapping her between the wall and Phasma’s body.

Leia’s laughter has always been the most wickedly filthy thing Phasma’s ever heard.

She turns her head, pulling at her gauntlet with her teeth until Leia grabs at it and yanks it from her hand in one brisk movement. It’s thrown carelessly over her shoulder, and anyone else treating Phasma’s armour with such disrespect would swiftly find themselves regretting it. But it’s _Leia_ , who is always the exception to so many things in Phasma’s life, and Phasma barely pays attention beyond distractedly listening for the clatter of the gauntlet’s landing so she can find it again in a hurry if necessary.

It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to spring apart and quickly redress before the approaching march of boots, either Stormtrooper or Resistance, reaches them.

Phasma tugs at the buttons of Leia’s jacket, barely resisting the urge to tear the fabric open. Leia’s hand is in her hair, her legs tight around Phasma’s waist. She only feel the pressure of them through her armour, not the heat, but it’s easy to imagine from past experience.

The nights they’ve gotten to spend together, naked and unhurried, are frustratingly few but they’re burned into Phasma’s mind as indelibly as scorch marks from a blaster.

Leia’s breasts push against Phasma’s chestplate, her thigh solid and firm beneath the curve of Phasma’s still-gauntleted palm. Phasma’s bared hand moves in the scant space between them, tugging Leia’s shirt up, snapping open the catch of her fly with practiced ease. Leia’s lips slide over her jaw, breath searingly hot against Phasma’s ear as she tugs at the lobe, and Phasma growls and shoves her hand beneath the waistband of Leia’s trousers.

With Leia’s mouth pressed to her ear, Phasma can hear every throaty note of her groan.

Her fingers slide over Leia’s folds, already slick for her. Phasma bends her leg, pushing her knee against the wall so more of Leia’s weight is braced by her hip and thigh. It gives her a little more freedom to move, to curl her fingers, fucking up into Leia’s heat. 

She knows how fast Leia likes it, how hard and unrelenting and delicious Phasma can make it for her.

Leia’s teeth drag against her flesh above the collar of Phasma’s armour. Digging in roughly when Phasma works her open, sucking blood up beneath the skin when Phasma’s knuckle pushes down against Leia’s clit. The back of Phasma’s neck prickles with fresh sweat, her hips rocking forward as she fucks Leia, grinding them both against the wall.

They’re not friends, they’re not allies. Leia is her _enemy_ , but there’s nobody in the entire galaxy Phasma has ever desired more.

She searches out the firmer nub of flesh just inside Leia’s cunt, pressing at it almost cruelly. Stroking at her, feeling those telltale shivers in Leia’s legs where they’re still wrapped snug around her. 

There’s no time for finesse, but efficiency has always been a specialty of Phasma’s, and she knows Leia’s close when her head tips back against the wall, when her eyes fall shut and her lips part.

So beautiful, regal and powerful and hypnotic; the sight of Leia’s face in ecstasy is one that Phasma will never tire of, and she pushes her fingers deep and muffles Leia’s cry of completion with the crush of her mouth.

They’re both trembling when Phasma is through; Leia with pleasure, Phasma with barely-restrained desire. But the sounds of battle are starting to reach them in their secluded corridor. 

It won’t be the first time only one of them has reached climax. “I suppose next time I’ll owe you,” Leia says, her face flushed but the glassiness of her eyes already giving way to the usual sharp intelligence that shines there.

“Yes,” Phasma replies simply, although she’s breathing heavier, her voice rougher with lust. “You will.” 

The anticipation will see her through many dark nights aboard the Finalizer. 

She lowers Leia quickly, taking a step back because that space will help her breathe, help her focus on anything other than how much she wants to continue what they’ve started. But the First Order and its mission cannot be delayed any longer, and Leia will feel the same way about her own fighters and their foolhardy ideals.

Leia straightens her clothes with quick but casual movements, tucking a lock of hair back into its braid. In moments she looks exactly as she had when Phasma first found her, her impressive sabacc face impossible to read.

“Captain,” Leia says curtly, with a nod of her head and a twitch of her lips.

The next time they meet, Phasma plans to spread her legs for that smirking mouth.

“General,” she replies with detached respect.

They both turn without another word, heading in their separate directions. Phasma leans down to gather her helmet and gauntlet without breaking her stride.

She may pause to suck two of her fingers into her mouth before she puts her armour back in order, tasting Leia on her skin, but she’s suitably redressed and ready for battle before anyone else can lay eyes on her. 

And if the marks Leia has left on her skin throb beneath her armour when she lifts her blaster to rejoin the fray, there’s nobody else to know that beyond herself and General Organa and the promise of the next time they’ll meet.


End file.
